


Five Times Eames Was (Shockingly) A Gentleman

by deepsix



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Drunkenness, Kink Meme, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-11
Updated: 2010-08-11
Packaged: 2017-10-11 09:44:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/111016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deepsix/pseuds/deepsix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Eames was (shockingly) a gentleman and ignored Arthur's sloppy-drunk advances, and the one time Arthur finally got fed up enough to just jump him sober.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Eames Was (Shockingly) A Gentleman

**1.**

The pavement is damp when they get outside, and the noise of the club has dulled into a rhythmic, distant thump. The cooler air outside is already helping, but he can't quite forget the way Arthur had looked at him, their thighs pressing together under the table, and how that look had changed when Dom had suggested that maybe Arthur had had enough to drink.

This whole night has been a bad idea.

"All right," Eames says, taking Arthur by the elbow again before he can over-balance. "Let's find you a cab."

"Are you coming with me," Arthur asks, inflection all wrong. He's probably not going to fall over, but he is swaying a bit, and he won't quite follow where Eames is leading.

"Yes," Eames says, as if he's got a choice. He's tried it before -- shoving a body into a cab and shouting an address at the driver through an open window -- but he'd never been quite sure how it actually worked out, and he can't quite bring himself to leave Arthur to it. Arthur is fantastically drunk, after all.

Eames does find him a cab, and climbs in beside him, even though Arthur hasn't managed to master moving over all the way. He gives the driver Arthur's address, and shoves at Arthur with his hip until they're both in far enough to shut the door.

Arthur just leans into him.

"Are we comfortable now?" Eames asks.

"Very," Arthur says, and tips his head onto Eames' shoulder. He's relaxed, pliant against Eames' side, and his body feels very warm against Eames'. His breath feels even warmer when he tilts his face into Eames' neck, the tip of his nose touching Eames' throat.

"Good," says Eames, trying to ignore it. He even ignores the press of Arthur's knuckles along the outseam of his trousers, tentative and soft. It's an unfamiliar touch, and not at all where he wants it. "Tired?" he asks instead.

"Not anymore," Arthur replies. He shifts against Eames, then, and Eames feels the slide of Arthur's cheekbone, his nose as Arthur presses his mouth against the underside of Eames' jaw. His lips are soft and careful and Eames doesn't quite gasp, but he does feel something clench inside him, not quite prepared for the possibility of Arthur's kiss.

"What are you doing?" he manages to ask.

Arthur sighs against him in response, and kisses him again, lower, this time the arch of the muscle at the side of Eames' neck.

Eames jerks his head away. "I think you should stop," he says. He can't be sure it doesn't sound as unsteady as he feels.

"Isn't this what you want?" Arthur asks. He's sat up a little straighter now, but his gaze is still unfocused, warm with alcohol and utterly unfamiliar.

"Not like this," Eames says.

The rest of the ride back is very awkward indeed.

**2.**

Arthur is in the loo washing his hands when Eames walks in. Eames hasn't seen him all night, not since the toasts had ended and the wedding party had dispersed into endless mingling.

Eames ignores him and goes to the urinal.

"How are you enjoying the reception?" Arthur asks, his voice too loud. The acoustics of the tile distort the sound and it's disorienting, tinny, and Eames is too drunk for this.

"It's great," he says. And it is -- there's an open bar, and Mal has got an incredible number of attractive friends, and Eames has always been rather keen on other people's weddings.

"You look good tonight," Arthur says.

"What a thing to say to a man while he's pissing," says Eames. He re-fastens his trousers, and looks over to see Arthur's flush.

"I didn't mean it like," Arthur starts, but can't decide what it was that he didn't mean it like before Eames says, "Of course you did." He nudges Arthur with his hip to get to the sink.

"Look," Arthur starts again, and Eames does -- he watches their reflections in the mirror, the way Arthur hasn't moved aside quite enough to be polite, the embarrassed quirk to his mouth, the way he watches Eames watching them.

"Yes?" Eames prompts, when nothing more seems forthcoming. He shakes the water from his hands instead of drying them; he hates air dryers.

"I think you know what I'm going to say," Arthur says.

Eames turns, and Arthur responds by pressing him back against the counter. It's slippery under his palms, but he doesn't give anything back as Arthur fits his body in against Eames'. Eames breathes in sharply, and it's all pomade and distinct layers of cologne -- Arthur's, and others, and it crawls into Eames' senses with a sharp shiver of jealousy.

Arthur doesn't say whatever it is he thinks Eames knows, though. He's watching Eames' face, eyes on Eames' mouth, but he stops short of kissing him. Eames slides a hand up Arthur's hip to his side, thumb resting atop the waistband of his trousers.

"Aren't you going to kiss me?" Arthur asks. His breath smells strongly of something sweet and alcoholic, and Eames realises suddenly how very drunk Arthur must be.

"You're very drunk," Eames says.

"Doesn't matter." Arthur's mouth is very close, his words a soft exhalation against Eames' lips, and Eames could so easily do it.

But: "Yes it does," he says, and pushes Arthur away.

**3.**

"How is it even possible," Arthur says, and he's stumbling over his words, and stumbling over his feet, "that she can drink _so much_ and still be so sober."

"French women," says Eames, and shrugs. He hits the call button for the lift. Dom and Mal have already gone up, retired early in the manner of newlyweds, but Arthur had ordered another whiskey and Eames couldn't just _leave_ him.

"Do you think they're raised that way?" Arthur asks. It's the meaningless kind of question Eames has come to associate with Arthur in this state, several drinks too many down the hatch, but he has to smile at it anyway.

"Almost certainly," says Eames.

They step into the lift.

"You should come back with me," Arthur says suddenly. It's jarring and overly precise, like he's been working up to it.

Eames slants a look at him and presses the button for their floor. "What for?" he asks.

"Anything," Arthur says. His eyes are bright with the alcohol, and in the small space of the lift Eames can pick up very keenly the vaguely chemical odour of a freshly dry-cleaned suit, the scent of his cologne, a vague whiff of Arthur underneath it all. Eames ignores the way his stomach turns over at the thought of it.

"You'll have to be a bit more specific than that," Eames says.

"You know what I mean."

Eames puts a hand on his shoulder when Arthur leans into him, but he doesn't quite stop Arthur from pressing against him, warm and overly soft. Arthur curls his fingers into Eames' shirt, and Eames takes him by the wrist. He can still remember the heat of Arthur's mouth against his skin, from all those months ago, but Arthur had ignored it after, and Eames knows how these things work.

"You should stop," he says quietly. Arthur is too close for him to give it the vehemence it deserves.

Arthur looks at him, hazy and confident, and says, "But we both want it."

"Then we'll do it in the morning," Eames says, and brushes his fingers over the stuttering pulse in Arthur's wrist.

They don't, and Arthur's already checked out by the time Eames gets up.

**4.**

"I don't dance with drunk people," Arthur yells back at her, over the music.

"I don't think you dance at all," Ariadne replies, laughing, and finishes the communal the glass of water on the table before disappearing back into the crowd.

"I think she's right," Eames says. He's still sweating, his shirt sticking to his back uncomfortably, and he needs a drink, but the thought of fighting his way back to the bar is singularly unappealing. Instead he slides further into the booth so he can have some hope of being heard.

"I do too dance," Arthur says. He's drinking something clear and fizzy and there's a mess of empty glasses on the table in front of him. Eames doesn't know how many actually belong to Arthur, but given the soft slope of his shoulders as he leans back in his seat, he's going to guess Arthur is pretty well under.

"So why don't you?" Eames asks. He can't even imagine it -- Arthur was never made for that kind of movement, with his ramrod spine and sharp hips. Even relaxed, there's nothing musical about him.

"I have to watch Ariadne's purse," says Arthur, like this much was obvious.

Eames laughs, not expecting it. It's nothing Arthur would ever say if he were sober. "Shouldn't she get a boyfriend for that?" Eames asks.

"Maybe," says Arthur. He finishes his drink and lets Eames fish out an ice cube from the bottom of the glass. "Do you want to dance?" he asks.

"I just was," Eames says, and puts the ice cube in his mouth. It's not as good as a drink, but it's hot and he's hot and it's the next best thing.

"I mean," Arthur says, "do you want to dance with me?"

Arthur is looking at him now, strangely intent, and Eames knows there's a right answer to this question and there's a wrong answer to this question, and even as he's considering what it would be like to slide his body in against Arthur's, to put his hands on Arthur's hips and guide him in some kind of rhythm as Arthur winds his arms around him, maybe pressing them closer -- Eames says, "What about Ariadne's purse?"

"When she gets back, then," Arthur says.

"Why don't you go dance with her now?" Eames asks. The ice cube's already melted on his tongue, cold and necessary and not quite enough, but his skin's still thrumming with the possibility of what Arthur's offering. He still can't bring himself to say yes.

Arthur touches their knees together under the table. "I don't want to dance with her," he says. "I want to dance with you."

"She'll be heartbroken," Eames says, although she'll be nothing of the sort.

"Eames," Arthur says.

"Arthur," Eames replies, and he's suddenly tired of this. He's tired of the way Arthur does this, the way he never asks and never offers except for at times like these, like it's the only way he can bring himself to reciprocate. He moves out of Arthur's reach, and again when Arthur leans in to follow.

"I'll get you some water," Eames says, and turns away from the look Arthur gives him, sharp and disappointed and drunk.

**5.**

"What are you doing here?" Eames asks, nudging Arthur with his foot. He's sitting outside Eames' room, knees pulled up to his chest, and he's not wearing a tie. It's probably concealed somewhere about his person, but mostly he just looks exhausted.

"I locked myself out," Arthur says.

"You locked yourself out?" Eames repeats back at him. "Why didn't you go to the front desk?"

"I didn't want to bother them," Arthur says indistinctly, and reaches a hand out to Eames. Eames takes it and pulls him up.

"But you wanted to bother me," Eames says. He swipes the card in the lock and considers sending Arthur back downstairs, but in the end he lets Arthur follow him in.

Arthur doesn't say anything, and sits down very carefully on the end of the bed. He leans back on his hands, and the way he looks up at Eames is almost playful. His cheeks are flush and his collar open, and he looks amazing and hot and too loose to be anything but wasted. Eames wants to crawl on top of him and slot their mouths and legs and hips together and fuck him, hard and fast and everything until Arthur can't deny it anymore.

"What are you doing here?" Eames asks again, instead.

"I wanted to see you."

"About what?" Eames asks, as if he doesn't know already.

Arthur's smile is soft. "Come here," he says.

Eames thinks it's a terrible idea, and can already imagine everything that will go wrong -- the recriminations, Arthur's single-minded insistence on ignoring it right up until next time, the loosening of disappointment in the pit of his stomach when it turns out, again, that Arthur didn't really mean it.

He sits down next to Arthur anyway.

And he doesn't stop him when Arthur twists up and kisses him, his lips on the corner of Eames' mouth. Eames doesn't kiss him back, though, and doesn't turn into it, even though it would be so easy.

"You should go to bed," he says.

Arthur's look is tired, and frustrated, and Eames knows exactly how he feels.

**1.**

"Jesus Christ," Eames groans when he jerks awake. There is nothing remotely comfortable about hotel armchairs, and that's even truer when it comes to sleeping in them. He's got a god-awful crick in his neck and he's fucking freezing. He must've unbuttoned his shirt but never got as far as taking it off because it's half-fallen off one shoulder and the cold is prickling up his sides. He already hates everything about this morning.

He hates it even more when he realises that Arthur is still in his bed. And Arthur is looking at him.

"Don't you have somewhere else to be?" Eames asks. He shrugs his shirt back on. He isn't really interested in Arthur's bullshit right now.

Arthur is sitting up against the headboard, the blankets pulled up around his waist, and he's wearing only an undershirt. The rest of his clothes are in a heap on the floor, scattered and undignified, and Eames can't remember him taking them off.

"No," Arthur says. "Aren't you going to come to bed?"

"You're in my bed," Eames points out.

"And?" Arthur asks. He looks, _sounds_ too alert for someone who'd been up half the night drinking, and far too calm for this. There's never been a morning after when Arthur hadn't cut his eyes away, dark with embarrassment, and apologised if he spoke at all, clipped and precise, for his appalling behaviour and for wasting Eames' time.

And Eames doesn't know what to say.

"_Eames_," Arthur says.

"Fine," says Eames. He doesn't know what Arthur is expecting, what he's even playing at anymore, but all the same he stands up and pulls off his shirt, and pushes off his trousers. He's down to his underwear when he slides in between the sheets. "Is this what you want?" he asks, looking up at Arthur.

"Yes," Arthur says.

And then he climbs on top of Eames.

The skin of his thighs is warm against Eames, and he presses down against Eames, slowly. Eames puts a hand on his waist, palming at Arthur's side through the fabric of his shirt, and as the blanket slips down around them, Eames realises that Arthur is very, very naked from the waist down, and his cock is very, very hard. It brushes against Eames' stomach, hot and damp, and Eames meets Arthur in the kiss halfway.

It's like nothing Eames could have believed, Arthur's mouth slick and hard and desperate against his, and Eames brings his arms up around Arthur, hands sliding up the curve of his back, holding their bodies together. They kiss until they can't breathe, and then breathe together until Eames can't help but kiss him again.

Even as they rut together, Eames can't stop watching him, the way Arthur's mouth falls open when Eames touches him, palming his ass, fingers sliding over Arthur's cock, up his stomach. There's something shameless about the way Arthur looks back, pupils blown wide, and the way he presses them together, hands on Eames' shoulders, thighs trembling along Eames' sides.

"I thought you were never going to do this," Arthur says, after, pressing his mouth to Eames' throat.

"I didn't know you wanted me to," says Eames.

Arthur laughs against his neck, then kisses him again, open-mouthed and slow. "That's such bullshit," he says.

"Yeah," Eames agrees. He slides his fingers into Arthur's hair. "I just wanted you to be sure."


End file.
